the men who had carried down the oxygen, his little white goat's
beard jerking with indignation.  One of the fellows called him,
I remember, "a silly old bleached cockatoo," which so enraged
his chauffeur that he bounded out of his seat to take the part
of his insulted master, and it was all we could do to prevent a
riot in the street.

These little things may seem trivial to relate, and passed as
mere incidents at the time.  It is only now, as I look back, that
I see their relation to the whole story which I have to unfold.

The chauffeur must, as it seemed to me, have been a novice or
else have lost his nerve in this disturbance, for he drove
vilely on the way to the station.  Twice we nearly had collisions
with other equally erratic vehicles, and I remember remarking
to Summerlee that the standard of driving in London
had very much declined.  Once we brushed the very edge of a
great crowd which was watching a fight at the corner of the
Mall.  The people, who were much excited, raised cries of
anger at the clumsy driving, and one fellow sprang upon the
step and waved a stick above our heads.  I pushed him off, but
we were glad when we had got clear of them and safe out of
the park.  These little events, coming one after the other,
left me very jangled in my nerves, and I could see from my
companion's petulant manner that his own patience had got to
a low ebb.

But our good humour was restored when we saw Lord John Roxton
waiting for us upon the platform, his tall, thin figure clad
in a yellow tweed shooting-suit.  His keen face, with those
unforgettable eyes, so fierce and yet so humorous, flushed
with pleasure at the sight of us.  His ruddy hair was shot
with grey, and the furrows upon his brow had been cut a
little deeper by Time's chisel, but in all else he was the
Lord John who had been our good comrade in the past.

"Hullo, Herr Professor!  Hullo, young fella!" he shouted as
he came toward us.

He roared with amusement when he saw the oxygen cylinders
upon the porter's trolly behind us.  "So you've got them
too!" he cried.  "Mine is in the van.  Whatever can the old
dear be after?"

"Have you seen his letter in the _Times_?" I asked.

"What was it?"

"Stuff and nonsense!" said Summerlee Harshly.

"Well, it's at the bottom of this oxygen business, or I am
mistaken," said I.

"Stuff and nonsense!" cried Summerlee again with quite
unnecessary violence.  We had all got into a first-class
smoker, and he had already lit the short and charred old
briar pipe which seemed to singe the end of his long,
aggressive nose.

"Friend Challenger is a clever man," said he with great
vehemence.  "No one can deny it.  It's a fool that denies it.
Look at his hat.  There's a sixty-ounce brain inside it--a big
engine, running smooth, and turning out clean work.  Show me
the engine-house and I'll tell you the size of the engine.
But he is a born charlatan--you've heard me tell him so to
his face--a born charlatan, with a kind of dramatic trick of
jumping into the limelight.  Things are quiet, so friend
Challenger sees a chance to set the public talking about him.
You don't imagine that he seriously believes all this
nonsense about a change in the ether and a danger to the
human race?  Was ever such a cock-and-bull story in this life?"

He sat like an old white raven, croaking and shaking with
sardonic laughter.

A wave of anger passed through me as I listened to Summerlee.
It was disgraceful that he should speak thus of the leader
who had been the source of all our fame and given us such an
experience as no men have ever enjoyed.  I had opened my mouth
to utter some hot retort, when Lord John got before me.

"You had a scrap once before with old man Challenger," said
he sternly, "and you were down and out inside ten seconds.  It
seems to me, Professor Summerlee, he's beyond your class, and
the best you can do with him is to walk wide and leave him alone."

"Besides," said I, "he has been a good friend to every one of
us.  Whatever his faults may be, he is as straight as a line,
and I don't believe he ever speaks evil of his comrades behind
their backs."

"Well said, young fellah-my-lad," said Lord John Roxton.  Then,
with a kindly smile, he slapped Professor Summerlee upon his
shoulder.  "Come, Herr Professor, we're not going to quarrel at
this time of day.  We've seen too much together.  But keep off the
grass when you get near Challenger, for this young fellah and I
have a bit of a weakness for the old dear."

But Summerlee was in no humour for compromise.  His face was
screwed up in rigid disapproval, and thick curls of angry smoke